


Sandalwood and Ozone

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark and Bruce are still getting used to the morning routine together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sandalwood and Ozone

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [檀香和臭氧](https://archiveofourown.org/works/574440) by [Lynx219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx219/pseuds/Lynx219)



  
The bathroom is filled with steam, warm and relaxing.  Bruce finishes drying off and wraps the towel around his waist, then splashes some more hot water on his face.  He takes down the shaving bowl, its nickel plating misted with steam, and rubs his thumb across it to make it shine before putting a dollop of shaving cream into it.  The badger-hair brush makes a soft susurration as he stirs up the lather, the scents of vanilla and sandalwood filling the bathroom.

His father's shaving bowl and brush.  Alfred always keeps them clean and untarnished for the rare times Bruce has a chance to use them.  Usually he just uses an electric razor, but this morning he has a business meeting with a major shareholder.  On days he has to be Brucie, he likes to take the time to give himself an old-fashioned straight-razor shave.  It's hedonistic, opulent, a decadent ritual to lavish so much attention on one's self.

The bowl is full of rich lather now, and he applies it in small circles, the bristles of the brush caressing the planes of his face, massaging the warm soap into heated skin.  The razor cuts through the lather in clean, neat strokes, no patch left untouched, lifting away the soap to reveal clean skin made ruddy by the hot water.  He loses himself in the rhythm of the ritual, the passes of the blade along his skin.

There's a draught of cooler air for a second and he looks up to see Clark step into the bathroom, rubbing sleepy eyes, his body wrapped in a Wayne-monogrammed bathrobe.  "Morning," Clark mutters sleepily, leaning against the doorway, watching him as he re-lathers his face for another pass.

Bruce watches him in the mirror as he slides the razor over his face.  The novelty of Clark Kent in _his_ bathroom, in his bath_robe_, still hasn't worn off.  They've been lovers for a few months now, but this is only the fifth time they've woken up together.

As he rinses the blade between strokes, Bruce wonders when he will stop counting the mornings, when they'll become so routine they don't need counting.

They still don't fit together perfectly in the morning.  They bump into each other, each uncomfortable at running into the other's rituals--Clark squeezes the toothpaste tube from the middle, Bruce flosses so meticulously that Clark laughs at him.

But there's a sweetness to it all, to the unexpected miracle of tranquility, domesticity, that makes up for all the awkwardness.

His face is clean now, and Bruce runs his hands across it, checking for rough spots.  Clark's smile is warm and a bit lascivious as he watches his lover, arms crossed across his chest.

As he smooths aftershave over his face, Bruce notices that Clark has just a hint of purplish shadow on his jaw.  "I kind of assumed your hair didn't grow," he said, frowning at the stubble.  "How in the world do you shave invulnerable hair?"

Clark looks away from Bruce and into the mirror, rubbing a hand across his jaw.  "My hair grows really slowly.  I only need a shave once a week or so.  The Fortress takes care of it."

Bruce nods, but says nothing.  There's more here, and the detective holds himself still and patient, waiting.

Clark hesitates, eyeing Bruce in the mirror, his gaze oblique.  "When I can't get there, I--" He breaks off.  "Well, do you have a hand mirror I can borrow?  I'll just show you."

Bruce finds a mirror in a drawer, hands it to Clark.  Clark holds the mirror up--and twin truncated lances of ruby-red heat vision are carefully reflected off of it, angling back to pass along his face.  The beams clear just a tiny swath of Clark's face before he stops again, his eyes returning to their normal blue.  He looks at Bruce as if waiting for some reaction, and there's a wariness in them that wrings Bruce's heart.

"Keep going," Bruce says.  "It's fascinating.  Beautiful." 

Clark stares at him for a moment, then picks up the mirror again.

Some people assume that when he uses heat vision Clark's eyes turn a solid and opaque crimson, but it's not so.  Only the irises change color, to a swirling yellow-orange like molten metal, dazzlingly bright.  Watching the titanic force of Clark's heat vision tightly leashed for such mundane work is mesmerizing, and Bruce stares unabashedly as the lines of light pass along Clark's face, his hands carefully moving the mirror to glance the beams where needed. 

The sharp scent of ozone mixes with the sweetness of sandalwood.

Clark puts down the mirror and smiles at Bruce.  It's an oddly hesitant smile, a touch uncertain.  Bruce steps forward and puts his hands to Clark's face, still hot to the touch and smooth as porcelain, pulls him into a kiss that seems to increase the steaminess of the room tenfold.

"You'll be late to your meeting," Clark murmurs as the bathrobe is slipped from his shoulders, pooling on the floor.

"I'll drive like hell," Bruce answers, tasting Clark's skin, sweet and divine.


End file.
